Assorted Poetry

counting down

original date of publication: was never published.

Five weeks left.

I am in my parent's living room, and the TV may as well play static. I am already dead; their voices disappear into the ether, as does my body. The couch is uncomfortable. So is school. So is every floor I walk on. So is life.

Four weeks left.

I have made my decision. I would pack bags, but where I intend to travel is somewhere traveled light. I intend to take this ship alone. It takes courage, to board this ship, to step onto air and know you will find no solid ground. Solid ground is only my friend if it takes a long time to get to. Paradise, if it exists, must take a long, long, time to get to.

Three weeks left.

I never wrote a letter suggesting where I shall go. I have no reason, for nobody can read. My father only reads his own words. My mother only reads his. It will never reach my sister and I am not convinced I have a brother. To whom am I telling my journey's tale? None listen.

Two weeks left.

My travel comes with a warning: there are dangerous seas ahead. This ocean takes more lives than mine. His tears are as salty, and he begs, and maybe if I looked I'd see neon words telling me that one should never threaten tit for tat, but there is a single string that is tying me to the station, holding me back from crossing the ticket booth. A single ticket will pay for two. So he says.

One week left.

He wanted to show me what it would be like if I stayed. He came to me in my moment of need and walked with me along the grass, and he said: if you leave, will you see this shade of green, there? I told him I had seen a thousand greens before, and he said: aye, but if you leave, you will never see this shade of green again.

Three days left.

We stare at one another, and if I go, I will never see this shade of green again. It is soured by the tears and the anger and the fact that everything is falling apart, but it turns out things can fall apart for a long time- it never quite seems to be final. There is always longer to fall. How? Unless we are climbing?

Two days left.

The only light I can see is a new beginning in another life, and the lights of a train oncoming. But I trip over something in the darkness.

One day left.

My train is coming, and if I miss it, I do not know what I'll do. I can wait on the platform, or leave the station, and when my feet are encased in concrete it feels like I only have one option. But, for some reason, that nobody will ever understand, there is a hand in mine, and he promises he is willing to pull until I am free.

Today.

I see it coming from a distance, and I want to tilt myself off the platform, to go where I promised to, to find peace.

But his conversation is interesting, and I pause, and ask myself if maybe there is one more minute I can spare, to hear how this story ends.

I watch the train pass me, and I say I'll catch the next.

Yesterday.

I did not catch the next train. I still want to jump, but the strings hold me down. There are shades of green I'll never see if I'm red on that pavement.

Last week.

I never wrote that letter. If my father won't read it, my mother can't, it'll never reach my sister and brother- who am I writing for but myself?

Last month.

Paradise takes a long, long time to get to. It turns out that as you approach, the landscape becomes a little nicer around you. It develops new shades of green you've never seen before.

Last year.

If I were already dead, I would not be here. It didn't get easier. I just fought harder.

I want to see new shades of green every day for as long as I possibly can.